


Little Light

by folkful



Series: Joar and Viraven being Nasty [4]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood, Dacryphilia, Extremely Dubious Consent, Kissing, M/M, Men Crying, Mind Control, Not Beta Read, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Pet Names, Vampire Sex, Vampires, also gwilin is cute as heck he doesnt deserve this, because im predictable, but when do they ever, cos vira is kind of a mega creep, hardly even fuckin edited lets be honest with ourselves, more than in the other ones, not mild this time, the vampire's seduction ability specifically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:14:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28434474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folkful/pseuds/folkful
Summary: A half-starved vampire stops by in Ivarstead. The end result is probably regrettable.
Relationships: Original Dunmer Character(s)/Gwilin
Series: Joar and Viraven being Nasty [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2057886
Comments: 15
Kudos: 23





	Little Light

**Author's Note:**

> A good summary did not come to me today.
> 
> Finally managed to write something featuring this pretentious bitch man, his perspective is giving me more trouble than Joar's. Oh well. At least he's pretty.   
> (I should probably get art in here because they don't exactly describe themselves YA mirror-on-the-first-page style, I just can't scan anything or do digital art rn so the image quality would suck musty balls)
> 
> As always, tags y'all! If anything seems like it could be triggering based on tags, skip it. And again, if I missed anything, please do let me know!  
> We're in mind control territory now, because why would we not be? Hardly the worst offense I've written.
> 
> Happy early New Year, it's still 2020 but I'm gonna pretend it isn't because I'm three hours away from the 31st and at this point I'll let myself have that.
> 
> Oh also, 'sil' is supposedly the Aldmeri word for light, so I just yolo-ed it and decided it's probably the same in Dunmeris. No one's here for lore, anyway.

There weren't many reasons to come to Ivarstead, aside from business.

This time, it had been to do the Night Mother's bidding. A travelling mercenary, awfully hard to track down. Viraven had spent the better part of three weeks following dead trails, paying off inn-keepers, hunting in the night like the predator he was. It was finished, now, the body dragged into a bear-cave, stripped of anything useful or sellable.

After the tracking, the relentless pursuit, he was hungry.

He denied himself feeding when the Brotherhood had work for him. The starvation was hell on the gut, but it made him powerful. Stronger. Meant he did not have to waste money on invisibility potions, should the need for quick escape arise.

See, there was more than one way to be a predator, and Viraven enjoyed the blurring of the lines. Listener, vampire, master thief, Daedra's chosen. Where did one end, and the next begin? He fed on the fresh to sate his hunger, and the dead to honor the Lady of Decay (though he'd most likely have gotten around to it eventually, even without Her influence). When did one stop being a vampire's meal and become a sacrifice to Namira? Where did they intersect? Was there even a difference, in the end?

The night was too young for philosophy, he decided.

The village was quiet this time of day, and he had changed out of his bloodied Brotherhood armor into dark, inconspicuous leather. The sky was growing darker, but it did not affect his sight. He was made for the dark, now, and his eyes had changed to accommodate it.

The dirt path through Ivarstead was empty, but there was the sound of wood-chopping near the mill. Moving in closer, he recognised the young Bosmer swinging the axe. 

Gwilin was one of the few people of Ivarstead he'd made note of, one of the few whose name he remembered. Truthfully, he was nothing special, not in the grand scheme of things. But Viraven was nothing if not a self-indulgent creature, and this mer was a sweet thing, marred neither by battle nor by the corruption of this land. He wore a friendly smile, a real one, one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and carried in his voice.

No, there weren't many reasons to come to Ivarstead, aside from business. But at the heart of it was this one, lacking the facades of the other inhabitants. This run-down hovel's own little light.  _ Hla'sil _ .

Gwilin greeted him before Viraven had a chance to initiate.

"Is it not late to be working?", asked the Dunmer-turned, wanting to go for the long game instead of simply pushing him to the ground and drinking his fill. He had other methods, better methods, and he'd had many years to perfect his self-control.

"Oh, er, yes, but it's getting cold out and there's still much to do." The Bosmer was smiling, still. He kept eye-contact, too, which would make Viraven's job much easier. "Besides, miss Temba asked me to. The bears are slowing down our work."

Viraven had not the slightest clue who Temba was, or how the bears were relevant, but as long as they held conversation, he held power.

What they called a vampire's Seduction wasn't much like other kinds of seduction, but it was the most accurate name for it. It was a scale of sorts, reliant on focus and contact, ranging between only softening the mind a little, and breaking it entirely. It was a careful dance, and if one was careless, the damage could last. Rargal Thrall-Master used this to make the castle's cattle, but Viraven did not like to break so much as he liked to bend. 

Bending Gwilin was easy. He was unassuming and naive, and his mind was so open already. In his head, the Bosmer was making a friend, welcoming a traveller. What he was truly welcoming was not only the traveller himself, but Viraven's unnatural allure. The Dunmer-turned met his gaze until his hazel-coloured eyes began turning hazy, spoke with him until his words slurred only a little. Then, he began asking simple questions, his usual way of testing the mind-control. 

When the answers turned flat, slightly mechanical, he was out enough for Viraven to move forward.

He'd at least expected him to have his own home, but it turned out he slept in a room in Vilemyr Inn. It only meant they would have to be more quiet. That he'd have to keep some of the mind control up to keep the sweet thing hushed. 

The room was simple, and he laid down a simple shock rune behind the door just in case someone decided to try and interrupt him.

He let some of the control drop, but let enough remain to keep Gwilin obedient. He stripped at Viraven's command, not present enough to be ashamed, and he had no need to be. The Bosmer was beautiful, as beautiful as he had imagined. Small and slight, like all his kind, but his back and shoulders were sturdy. Working a mill required a degree of strength, Viraven supposed. Anyway, he was in good health, it seemed. He'd do well for the feeding, and for what would come before it.

Voice like silk, he had the mer aid in taking off his armor, the clothing underneath. Gwilin's hands were steady, unquestioning, head still swimming with the Seduction. Once they were both bare, he kissed him, not as roughly as he could have. It was a tangle of gray and bronze and Viraven's yellow eyes, a pretty picture of power. But he was used to painting such pictures.

"Kneel," he murmured, and the Bosmer did. His eyes were slightly glazed over, but pretty as they always were. He was so still, so obedient. One of Viraven's hands smoothed down his long hair, not pulling, only resting there, playing idly with the cedar-coloured tresses. 

"Open your mouth, darling."

He did so, still looking Viraven in the eye, searching for approval, unknowingly sinking deeper into his control. Keeping it on the right side took a little effort. He did not want him wholly mindless for this.

As always, having someone under his spell, watching them obey his every want, sent a steady heat through his chest that settled somewhere lower. It wasn't the sharp shock of tasting blood, hearing cries of pain, handling a knife - it was softer, steadier. 

Viraven took himself in hand, stroking a few times, and then moved closer to the Bosmer, who was looking at his cock as though he didn't know what to do with it. Once more, the Dunmer-turned released some of the mind control, taking some of Gwilin's hair in his fist once more, still not pulling, only guiding.

"Keep your mouth open. I want to make it useful."

The mer took the head into his mouth, but there was hesitation, now. Hesitation was fine. He wanted some memory of this to remain, wanted him to know what he was doing. He pushed in further, giving a warning about teeth, and sighed in pleasure when the mer made an affirming sound that sent vibrations through his cockhead.

The Bosmer was aware enough to act much on his own volition, but not quite enough to know how he ended up here, or that he did not truly want it. His movements were inexperienced, but he took to directions well, mouth tight and hot. 

It reminded Viraven of young Ronthil, by far the most ill-fitting member of the Volkihar clan. He'd taken the alchemist's apprentice like this many times, without the need for mind games to make his mind pliant. Ronthil did not like this kind of attention, but he took any opportunity to prove his loyalty, his obedience, and he was too afraid of Viraven to refuse him. Tonight he was in no mood for violence, but he had a great capacity for it, and a temper that flared with the fire that was so inherent to his people, whatever form it took.

Thinking of the things he had done to the fellow vampire, what he'd done to so many others, he found himself close to the edge quickly. Gwilin was doing his best to take in his length, a small string of drool running down his chin, trying to relax his mouth in order to keep from gagging. Tears were gathering in his eyes, a reflex from the strain, not hurt, but they served only to arouse Viraven further.

His orgasm felt dulled, but the release was a wave of relief after the long hunt. Gwilin swallowed without needing to be ordered, and Viraven let slip an approving hum, stroking his hair once more. There was a troubled look in the Bosmer's eye, though, and while he did not say anything, it was easy to read. He had seen it enough times to recognise it. The little light was trying to gather his thoughts, put the pieces together, but they were slipping from his grasp, just out of reach. Somewhere inside, he had become aware he did not want this to happen.

But happen it would, and happen it had, and Viraven was alright with the conflicting thoughts and emotions, too, so he did not reach for further control. He loved them like this, confused and hazy, trying to decide whether to give into the temptation of his power, or to try and struggle against it. Sometimes, they tipped toward the former, let him coax pleasure from them freely, wanting the blank page, the empty mind, if only for a while. Sometimes, they tipped toward the latter, fearing loss of control, accomplishing nothing except delaying the inevitability of being claimed. And it was a claiming, whether he took them gently against soft sheets, or bruised them against hard stone, fucked them to tears.

He let the Bosmer stay there for a second, and then sat back on the bed, beckoning him. Gwilin stood, sitting next to him. Viraven took the lead, maneuvering the solid body, laying him down on his back, pressing a kiss to his reddened lips. Then, he put his fingers up against them, pushing just a little, but gaining no entry.

"Be good, and get them wet. You'll need it, pet."

The mer gave a hoarse sound, voice dry after Viraven had taken his mouth. But he opened it, full of trepidation. The Dunmer-turned's fingers were mostly gentle, but his nails were sharp, and he was fairly sure he scratched him accidentally more than once. Gwilin slicked the digits with awkward movements, gagging once, then coughing weakly.

Once he felt he had enough spit on his fingers to have it work as lubrication, he withdrew his hand, moving back and gently pulling the Bosmer's knees apart, leaving his feet bracing against the mattress.

His hole was tight even against the first finger, much as Viraven had expected. His race's small size, his nerves, his probable inexperience, they all meant he would need proper preparation. For the vampire's sake, if nothing else. But he enjoyed fingering, too. His first finger slipped in slowly, and the little mer was freely whimpering in discomfort. It sent heat travelling down his spine, as if he was already fucking him.

Vampirism had many perks, and stamina was among them. Viraven was already stirring again, still slightly sensitive, but nowhere near the way a mortal mer would be.

Gwilin's brow furrowed suddenly. Viraven could practically see the cogs turning, like something built by the Dwemer and hidden underground.

"B-burns...don't want-"

"Hush,  _ hla'sil _ . It will hurt less if you relax."

Viraven's free hand petted the Bosmer's cheek, somewhere between gentle and patronising. Gwilin closed his eyes softly, swallowing once. 

He began pushing in his second finger, and the mer gasped, shaking his head in harsh motions. Viraven laid a mild smack to his left ass-cheek.

"I told you to relax, didn't I? You want me to do this, believe me, else my cock in you will be a much greater pain."

He kept his voice soft, but stern, superior. The Bosmer let slip a pitiful sound in response, but he did relax his hole a bit, no longer clenching down on the digits like a bear-trap.

"I...I don't understand," he whispered.

"You don't need to understand." Viraven's tone was soothing, this time. "You only need to let it happen."

A third finger, and he got his first real tear, a small drop making its way down Gwilin's temple. The Bosmer drew a shuddery breath.

"T-too much-"

"No," Viraven warned. "You can handle it."

He took the fingers out one by one, provoking more little noises. Then, he spat in his hand and gave himself a few languid strokes, saliva mixing with beads of precum and providing a little more slick.

Entering him was blissful, and he worked his cock in slowly, in small thrusts. Gwilin was grasping at the coarse sheets, brown eyes open wide. Viraven ran his hands over the Bosmer's hips, sides, thighs, anywhere he could reach. When he finally began to move properly, he worked to find the right angle, wanting to shift the mer's pain toward pleasure. 

On one particularly deep thrust, Gwilin's body went stiff. He gave a keening moan, and then clamped his hands over his mouth. Viraven gently pried them off, holding them in his own against the bedsheets. He zeroed in on the spot he'd hit, trying to brush against it with every rock of his hips. The Bosmer wrapped his legs around Viraven's waist from where he lay, his own prick beginning to harden. Releasing a hand, the Dunmer-turned began toying with the length, the pace slow.

"See,  _ hla'sil _ ?", he said, voice like honey, needing no magic to coerce. "You don't need to understand anything at all."

And he didn't understand right now, not really, Viraven could tell. He'd never even given the little thing his name. In the morning, he knew his face would only be a blurry memory. The sensations were what stuck.

He continued to thrust, in, out, in, and he could feel Gwilin's legs tighten around him. The Bosmer was close already, clearly not used to another touching him in this way. But the Dunmer-turned was not close, not nearly, and so his hand left the dripping cock, stalling. He shifted, too, so that his own length did not hit the mer's sweet spot. 

The sudden lack of contact made him whine, shakily reaching for his prick, but Viraven reclaimed his hold on the free hand. He trailed kisses over the mer's neck, his chest, leaving little marks. Only light ones, pink and sweet-looking, nothing in comparison with what would be left on him after the feeding. His fingers tangled in sweaty hair, pulling only enough to add to the painfully mild stimulation. He kept up this slow torture until he heard little sobs coming from the Bosmer, the many sensations and lack of relief blending to create a kind of sensory overload.

"Would you like me to make you come?", he asked, looking down at the mess of a mer underneath him. Gwilin only nodded deliriously, bleary-eyed from the tears that had begun to spill down his pretty face.

"You'll need to work for it. Can you do that for me?"

Another nod.

"Good boy."

Viraven sat back, almost pulling out, and then guided the Bosmer up on top of him. He was practically boneless, but managed to steady himself with his arms around Viraven's shoulders, clearly having sunk back into the Seduction.

Viraven laid his hands on Gwilin's hips, helping him move up before slowly going back down, cock reaching deep as their skin connected.

The mer was struggling to fuck himself on the Dunmer-turned's cock, and Viraven took pity on him, aiding the angle, letting him jab against his sweet spot every time he sank down harshly. The movements were slightly awkward, a little delayed, and Viraven could hardly contain the urge to simply bite into his neck  _ now _ , because  _ fuck  _ waiting. He emitted a low growl that made Gwilin's movements falter for a second, and then he took his pent-up hunger and put it to work in a rough, long kiss, touching and grabbing at the Bosmer's buttocks and thighs. 

Gwilin's noises were getting pitchy and desperate, but he wasn't touching himself. Wanting to test the mer's resolve, knowing he was once more deep enough in Viraven's control not to act unless given permission, he did not touch the Bosmer's cock either.

They settled into something not quite a rhythm, but close enough. Gwilin began begging in cut-off whispers. What, exactly, he wanted was a little unclear, but it ignited Viraven's nerves, and he pinned him under a ravenous, predatory gaze, snapping his hips up to meet the little mer halfway down, ripping a gasping moan from him.

Not quite feeling up to the games anymore, he wrapped a hand around the Bosmer's prick, rubbing his thumb over the pale bronze, reddened head, circling the slit. Gwilin was looking at the Dunmer-turned with something between trepidation and adoration in his eyes, mouth never quite closing, breathing increasingly labored.

He could see the Bosmer come closer to the edge quickly, and when he came, Viraven pushed his hips down hard, the impact against Gwilin's most sensitive places making him double over, forehead against the other mer's chest as he shot his warm seed over the Dunmer-turned's hand.

He allowed him a moment's respite, noting the way he winced with each movement and the way he'd become more...present. He raised his hand, putting it to the Bosmer's mouth, making him taste himself. This time, Gwilin appeared reluctant, troubled, but he obeyed the silent command slowly, cleaning his semen from Viraven's spread fingers.

Viraven began thrusting up against him again, no longer bothered with the other's pleasure, or his sensitivity after coming, only searching for a second release before he staked his real claim. The Bosmer began making high sounds, scrambling to get away from the feeling of the vampire's cock inside of him, sensations now more painful than pleasurable.

"T-too much, wait, too much, please-"

Viraven did not respond, simply wrapped both arms around Gwilin's waist, pulling him in, keeping the mer from getting off him. When he sped up his pace, he heard the little whines turn into overwhelmed sniffling, felt his legs quiver around him.

It was this that finally did him in, his body buzzing as he sheathed himself harshly, rolling his hips as he filled him up, reaching deep inside his much smaller body. He always felt strong when he took Bosmer. They were the only race he had significant size over, while Nords and Altmer and Orcs practically towered over him. That was a test of strength in its own right, but here his advantage was clear.

When he withdrew himself from the mer's hole, the sweet thing mewled in discomfort, trying to move away once the two were dislodged from one another. Viraven held him steady, a hint of warning in the touch, pressing his lips against a patch of little freckles on his shoulder, not far from the place he would soon taste. He was a beautiful thing, truly. A light, just as he'd first thought, gorgeous and all too tempting to a dark creature like Viraven. A gentle soul, innocent, the type he enjoyed corrupting. He did not want to corrupt him entirely, though, only dip his toes in it, teach him the meaning of power, let him be truly afraid.

"Why don't you bare that pretty neck for me?", Viraven practically crooned. The mer obeyed, but he could smell fear on him all the same. For a moment, he simply buried himself in the crook of Gwilin's neck, taking in the scent of the flesh, the growing horror of the situation, his true feelings obscured beneath the willingness to please spurred on by Viraven's power.

He licked the spot he would bite, and the Bosmer shivered. He would have let the gentler touch go on longer, but his hunger was potent, and he was in no habit of tormenting himself when the opportunity to finally feed sat before him. 

At first, he ran his teeth over the soft skin, only scraping lightly. Gwilin whined, trying to pull away, but Viraven caught the side of his head, holding him in place. Then, he sunk his sharp fangs in, feeling the bronze skin split under him, a rush of warm blood. He drank deeply, messily, only partly aware of the pained noises coming from the Bosmer. The mind control had a tendency to dull the pain, but not entirely, and Viraven's hold was loose tonight. 

Fear and pain only made the nectar taste sweeter, in his opinion. He did not want broken cattle. He enjoyed seeing the mind fight itself, the growing weakness, blood on inn linens. It was a visceral art, like a rose's thorns, beauty and violence intertwined. The only things that really mattered on Nirn were these depravities, the feel of a warm body against him, flesh and blood and bone.

He drank, and he kept drinking, the smooth, hot liquid in his mouth near-intoxicating. But he did not want to rob Gwilin of all life, or turn him, and so he forced himself to stop sooner than he would have wanted. 

The Bosmer's neck and chest were covered in red, and Viraven could feel the lower half of his face was the same. Fresh blood ran from the small punctures in sluggish pumps, and he lapped at the area once more before pushing his fingers against them hard, feeling a shuddering sob emanate from the little mer. He let a little Restoration through, only enough to quell the bleeding, but not to make the marks go away.

Gwilin was crying quietly, face wet with tears that wouldn't stop coming, occasionally sniffling softly. Viraven began pressing blood-stained kisses to his trembling lips, his cheeks, his forehead. The Bosmer was shivering relentlessly, eyes clouded, clearly under the influence of shock. When Viraven let go of him, he fell forward, cheek against the Dunmer-turned's chest, smearing more blood on his stomach, clinging to him with as much desperation as his stiff limbs could muster.

Viraven had seen many of his victims handle the feeding strangely, but this, he thought, was new. The Bosmer was holding onto him, sobbing into the one-sided embrace. Deciding to test how much the mind control was affecting him, Viraven placed a hand on Gwilin's head, and spoke.

"Let go,  _ hla'sil _ ."

The Bosmer's cries grew in pitch, and he only held him tighter, shaking his head against Viraven's skin. Not affecting him that much, then.

"Cold...m'cold, c-can't, no…"

The shock, more than the Seduction. The loss of blood left one cold, and disoriented, and the feeding had warmed Viraven to the bone. He was chasing the body-heat and the comfort of touch, as if the Dunmer-turned wasn't the one who had him so distraught. His breath came in hacking coughs, and he wept like a lost lad, confused and hurting too much to restrain himself. 

He laid the mer down on the bed slowly, in spite of the garbled protests and the way the mer's grip turned vice-like around his chest. He forced Gwilin to look him in the eye, pushing his mind deeper down into itself, focusing harder.

"You need to rest, little light," he murmured, laying the thick blanket over the Bosmer's nude form without cleaning the blood from him. It was drying down now, dark, a beautiful contrast with the soft, light brown of his skin. He still heard scattered complaints, but there was no move to get up. The gorgeous thing looked about ready to pass out. 

Viraven stood, dressing himself, leaving the traces of feeding on his stomach and coating half of his face. When he turned to the bed again, Gwilin had slipped into unconsciousness. 

He left the inn through the window, landing on the ground smoothly and melting into the shadows. The path to Dawnstar was a long one, and he preferred to travel under the cloak of night.


End file.
